Single in Suburbia

by Wendy Wax

  “Sometimes I feel like they should rent out rooms here,” she said.

  One of his sandy eyebrows shot up and his green eyes sparked with amusement. “I’m assuming you don’t mean by the hour.”

  Amanda blushed yet again. She suspected she was setting some sort of record for cheek suffusion. “Because of all the driving. To, um, save on gas.” She was blathering like an idiot and couldn’t seem to stop herself. Where was Solange when she needed her?

  “I’ve never seen you here before,” Amanda said. And Lord knew, no woman would have missed him. “When did your daughter join the company?”

  “About a month ago. But our housekeeper’s been driving her. She left yesterday for Jamaica so I’ve got carpool duty.”

  Amanda was processing his answer when the girls began to pile out of the studio in excited little knots.

  “Hey, Mom, guess what?” Meghan pulled Hunter James’s daughter over in front of her. “Sam’s going to the prom with Brent Means, he’s Joey’s best friend. So we’re going to share a limo with Angie and Sandy and their dates. I asked them all to come over for a picture party before the prom.”

  “Gee.” Amanda resisted looking at Hunter James, absolutely refused to check and see how those green eyes were reacting. “That’s great.” She swallowed. “The more the merrier.”

  If it had been any other parent, she would have invited them to stop by and be a part of the pre-prom gathering. But she was much too aware of Hunter James as a man to want to watch him in action with his wife.

  “Mom?” Meghan nodded none too subtly toward Samantha’s father.

  Amanda gave a warning shake of her head, but her daughter ignored her. “Lucy Simmons is having a bunch of kids and their parents over for their picture party,” Meghan said.

  “Well, I, um…” OK, this was ridiculous. She was NOT going to blush again. “Of course.” Taking a step back, Amanda turned to face Samantha’s father. “We’d love it if you and your wife could join us for pictures before the prom.”

  A look she couldn’t decipher washed over his face, but it was Samantha who spoke. “My mother’s dead. That’s one of the reasons we moved here.”

  “Oh,” Amanda said.

  The girl’s eyes welled briefly.

  “I’m so sorry.” Amanda reached out and placed a hand on Samantha’s shoulder then turned back to Hunter James. “I’m sure the girls will want to get dressed together. Why don’t you join us for the big send-off? And bring your camera.

  “Will six work?” she asked Meghan.

  Her daughter nodded and smiled her thanks.

  They walked out to the parking lot with the girls chattering between them and got into their cars. Hunter James’s was big and masculine like the man who drove it, but in reality it was a “mom mobile.” Which was, Amanda decided, the way to treat the unnerving Mr. James—just like she would any other mother of her acquaintance.

  She stole one last look as Mr. Mom slid behind the wheel of the black Escalade and knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

  Hunter James bore absolutely no resemblance to any other mother she’d ever met.

  chapter 13

  S he’d heard it said that the eyes were the mirror to the soul. But after a little over a week in the cleaning business, Amanda was pretty certain that a person’s closet was a much clearer reflection.

  She stood now in the master closet of Sylvia Hardaway, one of Candace’s neighbors, staring into a dressing room/ closet combo that was large enough to house a small country. She was tempted to yodel into its cavernous depths just to see how long it would take for the sound to echo back.

  With wonder she contemplated the burnished mahogany built-ins that covered every available inch of wall and in which Sylvia’s clothing had been hung and folded in a rich spill of color and texture that delighted the eye.

  A stand of custom-built dressers in the same deep wood and topped with dappled marble anchored the center of the space. At one end, a wall of shelves held a collection of designer shoes that would have made Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City weep with envy. A sitting area with love seat and chairs cozied up to a minibar and refrigerator at the other end, presumably in case Sylvia worked up a thirst or appetite while dressing, which given the sheer number of choices seemed entirely possible.

  The master bath lay through a door to the right. It, too, was divided into His and Hers and was separated by a carpeted hallway from her husband’s slightly smaller dressing area.

  Amanda circled Sylvia Hardaway’s closet slowly, taking it all in, and noticed that many of the hanging garments still bore their tags. A glimpse at some of the price tags made her heart race—just returning one or two of them would make a large dent in the growing stack of bills on her kitchen desk at home.

  As Amanda turned to leave, Sylvia Hardaway entered the closet, a hanging bag from Neiman’s folded over one arm. She looked to be somewhere around fifty, but had the face and body of a woman who worked full-time on both. With apparent breaks for shopping.

  “Madame,” Amanda said in Solange’s voice, “your closet ees magnifique. I am wondering if I might rent a part of zee space to live in it.”

  Her client’s gaze was a bit vague, her smile heartbreakingly brittle. “Be my guest,” she said, gesturing into the bowels of the closet. “And bring your family. I don’t think Charles is home enough to even notice.”

  “Oh, no,” Amanda/Solange said. “That cannot be true. I’m sure your husband notices you. You are a very handsome woman and if I may say so, you dress with a very French flair.”

  “Why thank you, Solange,” Sylvia said, her smile warming. “That’s very kind of you. I do spend considerable time on wardrobe selection.”

  This, of course, was like saying the Atlantic Ocean was damp, but Amanda didn’t point that out.

  “The right outfit can give a woman such a helpful…boost, don’t you think?” her newest client said as she hung the new clothing without bothering to remove it from the bag.

  As could alcohol, Amanda thought later when she found the empty vodka bottles buried in Sylvia’s recycling bin.

  The more she peered beneath the surface of other women’s lives, the more she questioned the “happily ever after” tales that little girls were raised on. And the more attractive Solange de Papillon’s marvelous sense of self-confidence became.

  “Yes, Mother, I know. No, Mother, I won’t.” Candace sat at the desk in her home office, eyes closed in an attempt to ward off the headache that had threatened the moment her mother’s phone number appeared on her caller ID. She allowed her mind to wander for a few moments, hoping that might stop the throbbing, but brought it screeching back when her mother’s words sank in.

  “I can’t do lunch on Saturday.” Candace rubbed her forehead, trying to loosen the knot there. “I have a previous commitment.”

  “But I promised Minna Jacobs we’d take her son to the club for lunch. He’s only in town until Sunday morning.”

  “You shouldn’t have spoken for me without asking.” It was hard to talk with your teeth so tightly clenched, but Candace had years of practice. “I can’t do it. Other people are counting on me.”

  Any other mother would have given in then, but “no” was not a word Hannah Bloom accepted from others.

  “Whatever in the world could be more important than lunch with your mother and an eminently suitable man?”

  Candace knew before she spoke exactly how important her prior commitment was going to sound to her mother. Even she was having a hard time accepting how committed she felt about it. “I have concession duty at the ballpark.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “I’m sorry,” her mother said. “I must have misunderstood, because I thought you were turning me—and Stanley Jacobs, the podiatrist—down for concession duty at a Little League game.”

  Candace sighed. “No, no mistake.” Looking up, she saw Amanda in the doorway. She’d removed all traces of Solange and had tucked her own straight dark
hair behind her ears. Candace raised a hand and motioned her in then raised a finger to indicate she’d only be a minute. “I promised to help out. In fact, I want to help out. You’ll have to take him to lunch yourself.”

  “This is all about that Donovan person, isn’t it?”

  Leave it to Hannah to cut right to the crux of the matter. “This is the second time you’ve canceled with me to do something with him.”

  Candace rubbed harder at her forehead, but all she managed to get rid of was makeup. “This doesn’t qualify as a cancellation because I never agreed to the lunch in the first place.” As if her mother was going to fall for semantics.

  “Well, how can we make plans if you’re always at that ball field?” She uttered the last words in the same way she might have said “den of iniquity.”

  Candace motioned Amanda to the chair on the opposite side of her desk.

  “Listen, Mother,” she finally interjected into Hannah’s stream of complaints, “I’ve got to run. Someone just came in.” She closed her eyes again and sighed at her mother’s parting shot. “Yes, Mother,” she replied. “I know exactly how old I am. And I realize that my eggs aren’t getting any younger either.”

  “Wow.” Amanda winced as Candace hung up the phone. “Does she bring those things up often?”

  “You could say that. Doesn’t your mother do the ‘your eggs are drying up, why can’t you hold on to a husband’ spiel?”

  Amanda shook her head.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing. But then you already have children and your mother probably thinks everything you do is wonderful. What kind of torture does she have in mind for Rob?”

  “She’s always been very supportive, both my parents have.” Amanda shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “And I, uh, assume they’d be totally on my side if I, um, ever actually admitted that Rob and I were having problems.”

  Candace looked at the woman seated across from her. She looked like a sane, normal person—except possibly for the whole Solange the butterfly persona—but then appearances were often deceiving.

  “You mean you haven’t told them about Tiffany? Or that you’re getting a divorce? Or that you dress up as a French maid and clean houses?”

  Amanda shook her head again.

  “Wow.” Candace sat back in her chair, trying to absorb it. “That could never happen in my family. If my mother even thought I was keeping something from her, she’d hire rogue CIA agents to capture me and inject me with truth serum. Hell, she’d probably cut out the middleman and inject me herself.”

  “I keep meaning to tell them,” Amanda said. “But they’re on this cross-country trip in their motor home that they’ve been planning forever. I don’t want to ruin it.” She sighed.

  “My parents have been married for forty-five years and are actually still in love with each other. I just can’t bring myself to admit I’ve failed so badly at marriage.”

  “I don’t think you’re the one who failed,” Candace said. “But won’t your kids say something? Shouldn’t you mention it before Meghan or Wyatt does?”

  “Oh, I’m going to have to tell them sometime soon. I know that. I’m just trying to get up my nerve. I’m sort of hoping I can borrow some of Solange’s.”

  “Ah, yes, the fabulous French one. How’d she do at Sylvia’s? Isn’t her closet to die for?”

  “Yes.” Amanda smiled, clearly relieved to move on to a safer topic. “I’m thinking about buying a bumper sticker for her Lexus that says, I brake for Jimmy Choo.”

  They shared a laugh over that one.

  “But she doesn’t look as happy as a woman with that many shoes should, Candee ass,” Amanda said. “And that worries me. Because so far, from what I can see, no one’s life is even remotely what it looks like it should be.”

  Brooke Mackenzie was not sorry to see the spin class end. Tired and sweaty, she jumped off her stationary bike, slung a towel over her shoulders, and gave a few nods of farewell to the other regulars.

  Striding through the health club and out to the parking lot, she sorted through potential meal ideas as she walked. She’d never been much of a cook. In her single days, she’d existed on fast food and restaurant leftovers, but now that she was a married woman, she prided herself on the meals she presented to her husband. Of course, most of them came from the already prepared section of the specialty grocery stores, though she was very careful to destroy or hide the takeout evidence.

  It was hard to set a romantic mood when she was playing the wicked stepmother for Tyler, but tonight it would be just her and Hap for dinner, and she intended to make the most of the opportunity. During dinner, she’d grab and hold on to her husband’s full attention, a feat that was becoming harder and harder to accomplish. The meal would be a demonstration of how well she could fulfill her wifely role. Afterward, well, afterward Hap could have whatever he chose for dessert.

  At the gourmet grocery Fresh Market, she picked up two salmon filets with a feta and spinach stuffing and the twice-baked potatoes that Hap favored.

  At home, she showered and changed, preheated the oven, and assembled the salad ingredients in a beautiful ceramic bowl. By seven fifteen the potatoes were reheating, the salmon sat on the counter ready to pop in the oven, and a bottle of Hap’s favorite white wine was opened and sitting in a cooler.

  Running nervous hands down the sides of her tight black miniskirt, Brooke adjusted the low-slung waistband and figure-hugging black silk blouse she’d tucked into it to better display her décolleté.

  At seven thirty the garage door went up. She’d just finished pouring his glass of wine when her husband came through the door.

  Hap smiled, pecked her absently on the cheek, and took the wine she held out to him. “Thanks. Umm, smells good in here.” He looked around the kitchen with the kind of appreciation he used to reserve for her.

  “Salmon and twice-baked potatoes. We can eat in ten minutes.”

  “Great.”

  She’d pictured them chatting about their days—not that hers were all that full now that she’d quit work—while she got dinner on the table, imagined the exchange of meaningful glances that would make it difficult to get all the way through the meal before adjourning to the bedroom.

  Her mind had conjured all kinds of elaborate scenarios for their childless evening, but Hap picked up the newspaper she’d left folded on the counter, and carried it and his wineglass into the family room. She trailed behind him and watched in dismay as he sank into his favorite club chair, put his long legs up on the ottoman, and buried his face in the sports section.

  “Hap?” Brooke moved closer.

  “Hmmm?” He grunted, but didn’t look up.

  Swallowing her disappointment, she stared at her husband. Hap Mackenzie’s hair was beginning to show threads of gray and his once broad shoulders had begun to hunch slightly inward. His clear brown eyes were fixed on the newspaper at the moment, but she had seen herself in them; had seen the sparkle of interest, the burning of lust. When he’d asked her to marry him, she’d believed what was shining in their depths was actually love.

  He was sixteen years older than her and was no longer the rock-hard jock she knew he’d once been. But she’d had enough rock-hard bodies in her life. Hap had something more alluring than muscle; an inner confidence that dwarfed her own and a firm understanding of his place in the world. The chain of fast food restaurants he owned didn’t hurt either.

  She’d never imagined that in just one short year he’d be able to ignore her so easily. Or that his sexual appetite, which had been formidable, would wane when she was no longer forbidden fruit, but ripe and readily available and hanging right there on his tree.

  Back in the kitchen, she broiled the salmon and took the potatoes from the oven, taking great care to arrange everything attractively on his plate. Setting them on the candlelit table, she went back to the family room to retrieve her husband.

  “Dinner’s ready.”

  Reluctantly he folded the newspaper
and set it down. Standing, he stretched contentedly and moved toward her. He was still strong and virile—and surely still interested in her?

  She stayed where she was as he approached. Licking her lips, she pushed her shoulders back and her chest forward so that her breasts strained against the black silk blouse. When he reached her, she stepped forward until she was flush against him with her nipples pressing into his chest. Tilting her face up to his, she looked into his eyes and let her own smolder. “Hungry?” she purred.

  Six months ago he would have slid his hands down to cup her buttocks, lifted her skirt, and pushed her back against the kitchen island. Now he looked down at her quizzically, as if he didn’t understand what she meant.

  If she didn’t watch out, he was going to turn her into another Sarah—homey and comfortable and completely forgettable. Still, this didn’t seem the moment to seduce him on the kitchen floor or chastise him for treating her like the wife she was.

  “Now that I think about it,” Brooke said, “I’m absolutely famished.” She hooked her arm through his and made a show of being eager to get to the table, but the calculator that was her brain was analyzing the status of their marriage and thanking God that she’d already booked an appointment with Paul LaPrada, one of Atlanta’s most prominent plastic surgeons.

  Over dinner their conversation was desultory. She asked questions about his work and he answered. He asked about her day, and she did her best to give her workout and errands an interesting spin.

  Brooke found herself wishing that she could tell him about Amanda’s troubles. She would have loved to hear his thoughts and pick his brain a bit about the business aspects of Amanda’s undertaking, but Amanda’s secret wasn’t hers to reveal. And a conversation like that could all too easily lead to questions that Brooke was nowhere near ready to answer. For the first time the wall she’d erected around her past felt like brick and mortar between them. She’d accused him of keeping her at arm’s length, but she had no right to complain. How close could you get to someone you were afraid to share your past with?